


what makes life so sweet

by Potrix



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bonding, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Family Bonding, Fatherhood, Found Family, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, M/M, Misunderstandings, Music, Not Really Character Death, POV Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Parenthood, Post-Season/Series 01, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:08:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23883547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potrix/pseuds/Potrix
Summary: “Did you learn about music?” Ciri asks one day, after a particularly bad night of terrible dreams, perched on Roach in front of Geralt. “At Kaer Morhen?Geralt doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and when Ciri cranes her neck to look up at him, his face is full of what she thinks might be regret. His voice, when he answers, is quiet, almost sad. “No, we didn’t.”Assuming that’s all she’s going to get, Ciri turns back around, startling when Geralt continues, haltingly, “We learned to whistle, to mimic bird calls. Useful things. Someone—a friend. A bard. He was always singing, humming. Talking constantly. Still is, presumably.”When she glances back at him again, Geralt is smiling wistfully.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 51
Kudos: 373





	what makes life so sweet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyVader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyVader/gifts).



> For [LadyVader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyVader), who basically asked me to hurt Geralt. And I think I did. Sorry about that. 
> 
> Enjoy!

There aren’t a lot of songs and stories about Witchers at court.

Kings and Queens want the common folk to think of their knights and guardsmen as the heroic slayers of monsters, the protectors of the people, not the strange, barely human men living on the edges of society. Though no matter how far away they’re pushed by ugly whispers and rumours, Witchers are still needed, desperately so, and offending or denouncing them outright is considered unwise. 

They’re like bastard children, almost; rarely acknowledged, yet still always present. 

Ciri doesn’t know what to expect of Geralt of Rivia. He can’t be bad, she thinks, or her grandmother wouldn’t have sent her away to find him, though that isn’t all that much to go on. Not bad doesn’t automatically mean good or decent, it just means—not bad. 

But then Geralt turns out to be kind, above all. It isn’t immediately obvious, of course, what with the almost permanent scowl and all that grunting, but he is. He hugs Ciri back, that very first day in the forest, hesitant and unpracticed as it may be. He hugs her back for as long as it takes Ciri to stop crying, and then he picks her up as if she were a small child again, letting Ciri bury her face in his neck and hide, from everything, for just a little while. 

And the kindness shows, again and again, in all these different ways. In the first town they ride through, Geralt buys a much warmer, less conspicuous cloak for Ciri, then spends what remains of his coin on a room and a bath for her. He hunts and cooks for the two of them, and teaches Ciri how to do both for herself as well, in case the need should ever arise. Ciri learns how to lay snares, how to skin rabbits, how to build fires and shelter, how to defend herself with only her body, then also with a dagger and even Geralt’s steel sword she’s barely strong enough to lift. 

During cold nights out on the road, Geralt lets Ciri snuggle against his chest and holds her close, keeping her warm and safe. And when she wakes from nightmares about things she’d rather forget, shouting and sobbing, Geralt strokes her hair and hums, soft and slow, until she falls back asleep. 

“Did you learn about music?” Ciri asks one day, after a particularly bad night of terrible dreams, perched on Roach in front of Geralt. “At Kaer Morhen?

Geralt doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and when Ciri cranes her neck to look up at him, his face is full of what she thinks might be regret. His voice, when he answers, is quiet, almost sad. “No, we didn’t.” 

Assuming that’s all she’s going to get, Ciri turns back around, startling when Geralt continues, haltingly, “We learned to whistle, to mimic bird calls. Useful things. Someone—a friend. A bard. He was always singing, humming. Talking constantly. Still is, presumably.” 

When she glances back at him again, Geralt is smiling wistfully.

Ciri can recognise loss when she sees it, so she doesn’t pry. Instead, she leans back against Geralt, and hugs the arm he has wrapped around her tightly against her stomach.

It’s all the comfort she knows how to give. 

*

Stick bread has become one of Ciri’s favourite roadside meals in the weeks she’s been travelling with Geralt. The dough is simple to make, if they can spare the coin for some flour, and roasting it over the open fire is much more fun than simply watching their food cook itself. They’ve even got some leftover spices Ciri’s thinking of adding for some extra flavour. 

She doesn’t realise she’s been singing to herself until she stumbles over the words, and Geralt offers from the other side of the fire, “But neither pictures nor sounds nor words, can describe what happened to me, in this certain place when I saw you, and what glow you sparked that night.”

For a second, Ciri is rendered speechless. But then she grins, wide and happy, and asks excitedly, “You know it?” 

Geralt doesn’t look up from where he’s methodically cleaning the sticks for their bread, but he does offer a curt nod. It doesn’t seem as if he’s going to add anything more to that, but Ciri’s learned, by now, that waiting him out is the best way to go, sometimes. 

And it takes several minutes, but eventually Geralt mutters, “Jaskier used to like it.” 

“Your friend?” Ciri guesses, trying to sound casual and not as if she’s near to bursting with curiosity. “The bard?” 

Geralt grunts out, “Yes,” and then presses his lips together, obviously done talking for the moment. 

Ciri finishes the dough, preening when Geralt compliments her on her choice of spices, and wraps it around the prepared sticks, handing one over to Geralt to roast for himself. Geralt keeps an eye on the sizzling meat while they wait for the bread to finish, and they pass the waterskin back and forth in companionable silence.

It’s when they’re halfway through their meal that Ciri ventures, “Did he travel with you as well? Jaskier, I mean?”

Geralt glances over at her, his face carefully neutral. “From time to time.” 

Intrigued now, Ciri wants to know, “But not anymore? Why not?” 

She regrets the questions almost immediately, when she sees how Geralt’s mouth turns down at the corners. It’s there and gone again in an instant, but Ciri catches the sorrow that flashes in his eyes.

But before she can apologise, Geralt says, nearly too quiet to hear, “We had a falling-out.”

Then he chuckles, completely without mirth, and shakes his head, gaze fixed firmly on the burning logs in the fire. “I was cruel. Unjustly so.” 

“Well,” Ciri muses, tearing off a piece of bread to pop in her mouth, “did you apologise?” 

Geralt winces, which, truly, is answer enough. 

Ciri frowns at him. “You should. Tell him you’re sorry.”

Geralt looks at her at that, properly, smiling faintly. “I should,” he agrees, and then, nodding at her plate, says, “Finish your food.” 

Respecting the dismissal for what it is, Ciri decides to change topics. “Are there any of the dried figs left?”

Geralt’s smile turns more genuine, a little teasing. “You’ll find out once you’ve finished your food.” 

*

He doesn’t say so, of course, but Ciri can tell something’s on Geralt’s mind, and that it’s bothering him more and more the closer they get to Oxenfurt. It’s not difficult to guess what, or rather who, might be the root of his unease, but if there’s one thing Ciri has learnt about Geralt over the course of the last few months, it’s that being pushed before he’s ready to talk only makes him clam up entirely.

So, instead, Ciri attempts to distract him as best as she can. 

She’d been to Oxenfurt once, years ago, as part of the royal Cintran delegation who always attended the annual summer festival. There had been lanterns on every building, food stalls lining the streets, and groups of musicians at every corner, singing and playing merrily. 

It’s almost winter, now, but Ciri is excited to return anyway, and chatters happily at Geralt, relating everything she can remember from her first visit. Geralt doesn’t say much in return, but that’s all right; he hums or grunts in all the right places, and whenever Ciri chances a stealthy peek at him, he looks much less troubled than he had before. 

They stable and tend to Roach first once they arrive, then go about buying a room at the nearest inn. It’s early evening already, so they wander deeper into town in search of a tavern and some supper. The stew is hot and hearty, and Ciri eats with gusto, although Geralt is frowning into his bowl. 

It becomes clear why soon enough, when the bard in the corner finishes his set with a bow, to the cheers and applause of the other patrons, and Geralt grumbles under his breath, “Good fucking riddance.” 

Ciri doesn’t even bother to hide her laugh. “Not as good as Jaskier?” 

Geralt shoots her a look that fails to be stern, his mouth twitching tellingly. 

“Oh, it’s a shame, ain’t it?” the barmaid clearing the table next to theirs sighs with a sad shake of her head. When Geralt turns his unblinking eyes on her she flushes, but pushes on, “So sudden and unexpected, poor lad.” 

Something cold settles in Ciri’s stomach, ugly and foreboding, and she grips her spoon a little tighter as Geralt barks, “Speak plainly, or don’t speak at all.” 

The barmaid glances between the two of them nervously. “Well, I assumed you knew, of course,” she stutters, wringing her rag between her hands. “Thought you of all people must.”

Geralt bares his teeth at her. “Must know what?”

“Your friend, well, you see,” she says, swallowing visibly, “he died, didn’t he? Couple of months back. Tragic, it really was, we’ll all surely miss him, of course—”

She keeps talking, but Ciri barely hears what she’s saying, all her attention fixed on Geralt. 

He’s still, unmoving, and though he’s looking right at the barmaid, Ciri can tell he doesn’t notice her at all. He’s unseeing, his expression vacant, completely void of everything she’d painstakingly learned to read in it over time. 

Ciri has never, in all the time she’s known him, been afraid of Geralt, but right now?

Right now, she’s scared for him. 

“Geralt?” she asks tentatively, not sure what to say next when that empty gaze falls on her. On a whim, she stands and offers him a hand. “Come on, let’s go.”

Geralt merely blinks at her. 

“Let’s get Roach and go,” Ciri coaxes as she grabs his hand. She gives it a tug, smiling encouragingly when Geralt stands. “Come on, Geralt. Let’s go.” 

Ciri leads, and Geralt follows. 

It doesn’t feel right.

**Author's Note:**

> The song Ciri and Geralt are singing is called [Dein Anblick](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MIydkUxnWGs) by German folk rock band Schandmaul.
> 
> There is also [a rebloggable version](https://potrix-the-queerschlaeger.tumblr.com/post/616597157447909376/what-makes-life-so-sweet-chapter-1) of this on tumblr.
> 
> Go check out my other [work](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Potrix/works), or come over and say hi on [tumblr](http://potrix-the-queerschlaeger.tumblr.com).


End file.
